Page 45 of Filthy Lies

“My mother is dying, Vince!” My voice cracks. “I need to see her.Withoutan armed escort. Without turning a hospital visit into fuckingZero Dark Thirty, okay?”

“It’s not safe.”

“Nothing is safe! Our entire life is a goddamn minefield!” I step closer to his desk, lowering my voice. “Please. Let me do this one normal thing. Let me say goodbye to my mother without bulletproof glass between us.”

He studies me, conflict raging behind his eyes.

“Okay,” he finally says. “Arkady drives you. First sign of trouble, you call me.”

It’s more than I expected. I nod, not trusting my voice.

“Thank you.”

19

ROWAN

Mount Sinai Hospital. How many hours have I spent in these sterile halls? How many cups of vending machine coffee have I choked down while waiting for test results?

The oncology ward’s familiar antiseptic smell hits me as I step off the elevator. I hurry down the hallway and pause outside my mother’s door, steeling myself for what I’ll find.

She’s asleep when I enter. She looks frail. Her cheekbones jut sharply beneath skin the shade of old paper.

The experimental treatment had given her some weight, some color, some life. But it seems now like that was only borrowed, and it’s time to pay it back with interest.

She looks worse than ever before.

“Mom?” I touch her hand gently.

Her eyes flutter open. Recognition dawns slowly, followed by a smile that breaks my heart. “Row.”

“Hi, Mom.” I sit beside her and thread my fingers through hers. “How are you feeling?”

“Like I’ve been hit by a truck.” She coughs weakly. “But seeing you helps.”

I force a smile, though my chest feels like it’s being crushed. “Dr. Patel called me.”

“Ah.” She sighs. “Bad news travels fast.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” I ask, unable to keep the accusation from my voice.

“You just had a baby, sweetheart. You were kidnapped. You have enough to deal with.”

Typical Margaret St. Clair. Always protecting me, even when she’s the one who needs protection.

“We can try something else,” I say, the desperation evident in my voice. “Another treatment. Vince can?—”

“Rowan.” She squeezes my hand with surprising strength. “We both know how this story ends.”

Tears blur my vision. “It’s not fair.”

“Life rarely is.” She tries to sit up, but the effort makes her wince. “How’s my granddaughter?”

“Perfect.” I pull out my phone, showing her recent photos of Sofiya. “She has your smile.”

Mom studies the pictures with a wistful smile. “She’s beautiful. There’s something in her eyes, though…” She pauses, her gaze distant. “Reminds me of her grandfather.”

“My grandfather, you mean? Like, your dad?”

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